Oh, goodness. I cringe now in memory of the way I'd stamp my foot and toss my head and slam the door, trying to get Mum to listen to me.

I'm an adult, Mums! Damnit, trust me?

It'd be so nice to really believe that, to really think I know what I want and what this life's all about. Because I sure as hell don't think that my mother knows.

Being an adult isn't about knowing what's going to happen, although I wish it was. Being an adult isn't about knowing what to do. (God, someone, tell me what to do here?) Being an adult is only only, (as far as I know) about being responsible for the decisions I make.

Oh, no.

I'm an adult, damnit! Wasn't this the time when I'd know everything, and do anything, and fear nothing? Isn't this when it's supposed to happen?


I don't like making the rules as I go. I don't like testing limits as I teeter near an invisible line. I don't like being responsible.

So I'm an adult, eh? Where's the beer? Where're my smokes?